


Wild Hunt

by sheiruki



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood and Injury, But Not Much, Gen, Horror, Potentially ooc but hey we barely know anything about Sinding's backstory, Pre-Canon, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26948428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheiruki/pseuds/sheiruki
Summary: Sinding transforms for the first time.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 2





	Wild Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Huhu,
> 
> This was written for a prompt contest over on Skyrim Amino, the prompt being:
> 
> "You didn't know why, or how... But you were changing. You grew hair, on most parts of your body, and while hiding away at home, you began to grow the urge to leave, and hunt."
> 
> I... deviated a little bit... And somehow managed to come in third place. Oh, happiness ^_^

Running.

A deer was running, no, fleeing, through thick underbrush and across dry leaves, past the gnarled old trees whose branches sought to grab it by the antlers.

The air was thick with the smell of blood and the rotting bodies of its brethren.

The deer did not know how long it had been running, nor how far, or whether it would ever stop again. Its hooves thundered across the ground, leaving deep prints for its attackers to track.

Their screams echoed through the forest, followed by the bellowing of vicious hounds.

Soon.

The deer pushed itself to the limit, legs trembling, spikes of pain shooting through its body with every step.

It was determined not to end like the others, its head mounted on some hunter's wall.

Its flight took a sharp turn into a narrow ravine. Forward, its heart pounding with the rhythm of its hooves. Forward until-

Before it, a steep cliff of dark stone blocked the way.

A dead end.

Voices, unnatural and twisted, speaking words the deer did not understand, rang through the ravine.

They were coming.

Panicking, it searched for a way out. Left, right - nowhere to run.

Emaciated hounds with shaggy black fur announced the arrival of the hunters. Snarling, saliva dripping from their muzzles, they stalked around their masters' feet, hungry eyes glaring at their helpless prey.

One of the hunters wore the pelt of a wolf draped over his shoulders, another a helmet fashioned from a bear's skull. Their leader had the body of a human, but, oh his head, it reminded the deer of its own, a proud stag with antlers reaching high into the bloodred sky.

Pounding its hooves, the deer hissed at the hunter, scrambling backwards until, at last, they met the stone.

Perhaps the stag-man could understand him? Maybe he could tell the others to stop?

The stag-man opened his snout, but to the deer's horror, the words he spoke did not belong to the language of stag, deer, and spriggan; it was the language of fire and brimstone, iron and death - the language of man.

Another hunter handed the leader a metal spear. At the sight, the deer screamed until it could scream no more, but it was of no use. With slow, graceful steps, the stag-man approached and held the weapon high.

The frightened deer closed its eyes, whimpering.

With one swift motion, the hunter plunged the spear into its heart.

Sinding woke with a scream.

His head was spinning, his skin drenched with cold sweat. In the corner of his eye, the pale full moon was shining in through the window.

He tossed away the covers and looked down at the bled-through bandages wrapped around his torso.

When had the wounds reopened?

Groaning, he sat up. Even without the thick woollen covers, he felt hot. He brushed his hand over his forehead. Fever, he reckoned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Had the wounds begun festering?

Still delirious, he ran his hands down his cheeks. A thick beard had sprung from his skin throughout his recovery. He wondered how long it had been since he had been outside or even left his bed.

His stomach was howling, and yet, the thought of anything edible made him lose all appetite. Running, through dense forests whilst chasing rabbits, that was what he wanted to do, but alas, his injuries were too severe. This stillness, this confinement - it was sooner or later going to drive him mad. If only he could-

A knock on the door ripped him out of his thoughts.

Before Sinding could answer, a young man, no older than twenty and carrying fresh bandages, entered the room. The door fell shut behind him with a loud "thud".

"I heard screaming," he explained. "So I thought your wounds might have reopened."

Sinding recognized the man as one of the poachers who had found him on that dreadful day.

"So they did," he grumbled. If he was honest, he did not want company right now. Not with the fever blazing through his veins and clouding his mind.

"Let me see," the man demanded and sat down on a chair next to the bed.

Every word out of his mouth was infuriating. Sinding clenched his fists, burying his fingernails in his palms until they broke through the skin.

When the young man reached out to remove the dirty bandages, Sinding slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch me," he snarled through clenched teeth.

Wide-eyed, the boy stared at him, his fear polluting the air.

"Shor's Bones, what's gotten into you? I'm just trying to help," he stammered.

With shaky legs, Sinding stood up, towering over the boy. Blood dribbled onto the floor, staining it red and adding its scent to the intoxicating aroma of fright.

"Sinding wha-"

With strength previously unknown, he knocked over the chair and his victim along with it.

The boy frantically scrambled towards the door.

Yes, that was what he wanted. To run, to chase, to hunt.

He took a deep breath of blood and fear.

The boy was fidgeting with the door, but his own body blocked the way, preventing it from opening.

Sinding was ablaze with pain and ecstasy. Dark shadows burst through his skin, coating him in a thick mantle of fur. His senses grew sharper; the boy's racing heartbeat was pounding in his ears, the stench of cold sweat filling his nostrils. His jaw dislodged and bent forward, transforming into a muzzle filled with razor-sharp teeth, befitting of a mighty hunter.

In the meantime, the boy had managed to roll to the side and open the door. He was just about to try and get up when Sinding grabbed him by the ankle, pulling him back.

The boy screamed, thrashing and kicking wildly.

"Please," he pleaded, his eyes filled with tears. "Please, let me go."

Sinding let out a terrifying growl, watching the boy's face contort in sheer terror, mouth open for another scream.

A scream which never came.


End file.
